


this is your racing heart

by nirav



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Glee
Genre: Crossover, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 14:12:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,668
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirav/pseuds/nirav
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[glee/buffy crossover]</p><p> </p><p>they’ve never really known why, just that it happened, and that they are, and that it’s kind of cool so they’re certainly not going to ruin it by talking about it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is your racing heart

**Author's Note:**

> this is delivery on a promise for a birthday fic involving quinn and santana as slayers for tumblr user counterpunches. there's still an hour left in her birthday, everyone go flood her with fabulous well wishings.
> 
> disclaimer: still haven't done the whole season eight buffy thing beyond like the first two comics, so i know this has exactly nothing to do with the canon therein. but the buffy side of things is pretty much limited to "there are slayers, and buffy and faith are slayers, and they boned. ish."
> 
> second disclaimer: no editing, blah blah blah. you know the drill.

 

  
_if you had your gun would you shoot it at the sky_  
 _to see where your bullet would fall, will you come down at all_

_this is your heart_  
 _can you feel it, can you feel it?_

* * *

 

They’ve never really known _why_ , just that it happened, and that they are, and that it’s kind of cool so they’re certainly not going to ruin it by talking about it.  Santana can run faster than anyone in town—most dogs and cyclists, too, if she really goes for it—and Quinn accidentally ripped the entire front door at her mom’s house off its hinges once after getting in a fight with her dad.  That one was fun; she had to fabricate a break-in and the tears that always came so easily to her and file a fake police report just to keep up the charade.

Santana was always fearless, but even she would have thought twice about challenging Dave Karofsky if she hadn’t suddenly figured out she could lift Puck clear off the ground with one hand a month earlier.  Quinn was always strong and stubborn and resilient, but even she should have died when a pickup truck plowed into her at sixty miles an hour instead of eventually walking away with little more than occasional twinges of pain in her back. 

It just _is_ , and they don’t talk about it, they don’t question it, they don’t acknowledge it.  At least, not until Quinn’s dragged Santana to Cleveland one weekend just after they graduate college for an art show.  Then there’s a guy, a gross guy, grosser than the entire McKinley hockey team combined, stalking after them as they walk back to the parking lot.

Then he’s chasing them, and they’re running but Quinn isn’t as fast as Santana so they just _react_ , four years of throwing one another in the air lending instinct to the way Santana sprints at Quinn and Quinn launches her at him, leading in the tackle with sharp elbows and twenty years of anger.  His eyes go wide in surprise under his distorted forehead just before she slams into him and they tumble to the asphalt, and then Quinn is there with a brick in her hand, slamming it into his temple.

“Well, shit.”

It’s a chuckle from a shadow behind them, and Quinn whirls around, placing herself in front of Santana, brick raised defiantly.

“Whoa there, girly.”  A figure distorts from the shadows, dark hair and dark lipstick and dark eyes dancing in the flickering streetlights.  She steps towards them with her hands up pacifyingly, her posture casual, her lips quirking into a smile.  “Not here to hurt you.”

“What do you want?” Santana snarls, stepping up to Quinn’s side.

“Well, we were gonna waste fangalicious there, but you knocked him out pretty good, so I think we can chill for a few minutes on that one.”

“We?”

“We.”  Another woman materializes, blonde hair shining in contrast to the brunette next to her.  She’s tiny, smaller than Santana, but terrifying, and Quinn’s free hand automatically grips behind them, finding Santana’s.  “Really, we’re not here to hurt you.  I promise.”

“What do you want?” Quinn repeats.

“Like she said, we were going to deal with him, but apparently we don’t need to.”

“Take care of?”  Quinn’s brow furrows, her arm drooping slightly.

“Waste, burn, dust, stake, kill—“ the brunette lists off.

“Kill?”

“Faith,” the blonde says, rolling her eyes.  She sighs.  “Ignore her, she hasn’t been around normal people for a while.”

“Please, they aren’t normal,” Faith says, elbowing her and laughing at how both Quinn and Santana bristle.  “They’re totally slayers, yo.”

“Okay, seriously, whatever the hell you’re on, we don’t care,” Santana snaps.  “Come on, let’s go.”

Her fingers wrap around Quinn’s wrist, tugging her away.

“Haven’t you ever wondered?” the blonde calls after them.  “Why you’re so fast, so strong?”

They slow to a stop halfway down the sidewalk, and Santana starts to turn back.

“S, no, just let it go,” Quinn whispers, but Santana faces them anyways.

“What do you know about it?”

“We know why,” the blonde says simply.  “We can explain, we can teach you, we can train you.”

“Train us?” Quinn says, eyebrow raising.  “To what?  To kill people?”

“He’s not people,” Faith says.  “See?”  She yanks a wooden stake out of her sleeve and, before a fully formed cry of protest can make it past either of them, plunges it into the unconscious man’s chest.  His body jerks for a split second and then, abruptly, materializes into dust.

A short yell escapes Santana’s mouth, her arms going up defensively, and Quinn freezes, white ringing around her eyes as she stares at the dusty spot on the concrete where a body had just been.

“What the _fuck_?” Santana half-shouts, her fingernails digging into Quinn’s forearm once more.

“We can explain,” the blonde said again, tugging Faith back.  “Without Faith getting violent, even, if you want.”

“Why you always gotta ruin it?” Faith mumbles.

The blonde rolls her eyes and moves closer to Quinn and Santana.  “My name is Buffy.”

Santana snorts, and Quinn elbows her, but Buffy simply smiles crookedly. 

“That’s Faith.  She’s the problem child.”

“Sounds like someone else I know,” Quinn mutters in spite of herself, and Santana punches her in the arm.

“Oh, this is going to be fun,” Faith says gleefully.  “Come on, kiddos, let’s go have a chat.”

Quinn and Santana exchange a look, long and lingering and skeptical, before Santana nods and Quinn sighs.

“Fine.  But somewhere public,” she concedes.  They follow behind Faith and Buffy, hands still tight around one another, as they all head back in the direction of the art gallery Quinn and Santana had left.  Quinn keeps ahold of the brick until they make it to the busy street, depositing it on a windowsill and glaring at the back of Buffy’s head the whole while. 

 

* * *

 

And so it goes that they wind up in New York together.  They have their own apartment (thank _God_ Buffy didn’t feel like fighting when Quinn got her bitchface on and insisted she wasn’t going from a college apartment to a brownstone with ten other slayers) and they have their own jobs, but they also have slayer training and Council lessons and nights where Buffy and Faith drag them out to go patrolling in the theater district.

“Q, come on,” Santana shouts from the front hallway.  “Last time I was late Faith made me do a thousand pushups, I am _not_ doing that again.”

“Keep your pants on,” Quinn says around the hair tie clenched in her teeth as she pulls her hair back.  “We won’t be late.  I’m never late.”

“I’m telling her it was your fault.”  Santana kicked her in the ass, shoving her out the open door and following her through.

“I’m never late,” Quinn says agin.  She elbows Santana sharply in the ribs. 

“Yeah ,yeah, whatever.”  Santana leaps down the last flight of stairs.  “Walk faster, talk slower.”

“Bite me,” Quinn says with a smile.

“But Quinn, last night you said—”

“Yo!” Faith’s voice echoes down the street.  She’s propped against a lamppost, and gestures sharply at an imaginary watch on her wrist.

“Saved by the psychopath,” Quinn says.  “Come on, I’m never late.”  She jogs down the street, and Santana follows, rolling her eyes and purposefully outrunning her.

“So good of you to show up,” Faith says, crossing her arms.

“It’s Quinn’s fault.”

“What’re we doing tonight?” Quinn asks briskly, ignoring Santana.

“What we do every night, Pinky.”

“Try to take over the world?” Buffy says, joining them from behind Faith.  She smiles at Santana and Quinn.  “Actually, we found a nest and thought the four of us could take it on together.”

“A nest?” Santana’s eyebrows raise, just like Quinn’s.  “Weren’t you saying like yesterday that we weren’t ready for that kind of—”

“Not all by your little self,” Faith interrupts.  “Team effort.  Ra ra.  Come on, I’ve been cooped up all day, let’s do this shit.”

“Ever the poet,” Buffy says.  She jerks her head towards the other side of the street.  “Lead on.”

The nest is only two blocks away, in the sub-basement of some dingy condemned apartment building.  Faith and Santana charge in after only a few seconds.  Buffy and Quinn follow—Buffy with an indulgent smirk, Quinn with an annoyed eye-roll.

There are two dozen vampires in the building, and they work methodically through them.  Quinn and Santana gravitate towards one another, throwing each other and vampires around easily, and then Santana drifts off on her own, dancing circles around a vampire her father’s age.  Quinn’s arm is back to drive a stake through the vampire in front of her when one leaps from the stairwell and tackles her from behind, the two of them slamming into the floor.  Her back twinges on the impact and screams when she tries to muscle the vampire off of her back, pain echoing up her spine with every movement.

Gritting her teeth, she manages to get her feet under her and shove back, throwing the vampire off balance enough to break free.  Her back protests as she spins and ducks under a punch, and she grimaces, yanks a stake out of her boot, hurls it into his chest.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Faith crows, throwing a thumbs up in her direction from across the room.  Quinn forces her lips into a smile, rising to her feet just in time to catch a kick from another vampire. 

The last few are easy pickings, and it’s barely a minute later before there’s nothing left but dust.  Faith hipchecks Buffy, smiling widely, and punches Quinn in the arm.  “When did you start teaching her how to throw shit, B?  That was awesome.”

“It was whatever,” Santana mutters, crossing her arms, and Buffy laughs.

“Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They’re a block away when a group of men rounds the corner, loud and drunk and boisterous.  They brush by, slayer senses gagging halfway on the alcohol rolling off of the men, but they’ve barely turned the corner themselves when the guys turn around and start following them.

Santana bristles at the first catcall, but Buffy grabs her arm and keeps her moving forward.  Faith flips her middle finger back at them without looking.  They keep following, and Quinn grits her teeth through the whistles, the jeers, until she hears _“Come on, good little girl like you, blondie, you look like you need a good bangin’.”_

Santana is already looking at her, eyes narrowing warily, but even she isn’t fast enough to stop Quinn from spinning round gracefully and yanking a gun from its spot in the waistband of her jeans, hidden under her jacket.

Everyone skids to a halt, and Quinn points the gun calmly at the man closest to her.  “You’re going to turn around,” she says calmly.  “And you’re going to be quiet, and you’re going to walk away.”

“Q!” Santana hisses, grabbing at her jacket.

“Quinn,” Buffy says quietly.  “Put it down.”

“Seriously, okay,” one of the guys says, his hands out in front of him.  “Calm the hell down, lady.”

“Walk.  Away.”  Quinn shifts the gun in his direction, and he stumbles back a few steps.

“Quinn,” Buffy snaps. 

“Crazy bitch,” one of the other guys says.  Quinn points the gun at him and flicks the safety off.  He scrambles back, yanking at his friends’ arms.  They all follow, grumbling and stumbling, and as soon as Quinn’s arm relaxes, Buffy yanks the gun out of her hand.

“What the _hell_?”

“Whatever,” Quinn mutters.  She starts off towards home, jaw clenched; Santana hesitates for only a second before hurrying after, Buffy and Faith right behind her.

“Quinn!” Buffy says, grabbing her arm and yanking her to a stop.  Quinn grimaces, yanking her arm away, and Buffy’s brow furrows as Santana’s eyes widen in realization.  “Why the hell do you have a _gun_?  Have you lost your mind?” She ejects the magazine from the gun and bullet from the chamber, shoving them into Faith’s hands angrily.  Eyes sharp, she steps into Quinn’s personal space, dangling the gun between them by the barrel.  “These?  Are never helpful.  Are never okay.  You’re a slayer, you don’t need one.”

“Buffy,” Faith says hesitantly, eyes trained on Santana’s face.  “Calm down.”

“You have no reason to have one,” Buffy continues on.  “They won’t dust vampires.  They won’t kill demons.  The only thing they can kill is a _person._ ”

Quinn stares her down, silent and unresponsive, and doesn’t move until Santana is at her side.

“We’re going home,” Santana says shortly.  “Bye.”

She doesn’t wait for a response from either of them, grabbing onto Quinn’s arm and pulling her—carefully, gently—down the sidewalk. 

 

* * *

 

They make it back into their apartment before Santana speaks again.  “Have you lost your goddamned mind?”

“Shut up, Santana,” Quinn says.  Her teeth are tight around the words, exhaustion and pain and annoyance weighing her down.  She makes her way into the bathroom, digging through the medicine cabinet and surfacing with a bottle of advil.

“I don’t care if you have a gun, even if it’s pretty fucking stupid,” Santana says from the doorway.  “I care that you’re pretending you’re _fine_.”

“I _am_ fine,” Quinn snaps.  “And I’m going to shower now, so get out.”

“What, like I haven’t seen all that before?” Santana crosses her arms. 

“Whatever,” Quinn mutters.  She shrugs out of her jacket, discarding extra stakes and a knife Buffy had given to her for her birthday, and strips her t-shirt off.

“You need to tell them about your back,” Santana says.

“I don’t.”  She toes out of her boots, kicking them peevishly towards Santana.

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Don’t talk about things you know nothing about,” Quinn says, glaring over her shoulder as she starts the water in the shower.

“Quinn, I’m standing right here looking at the scars on your back,” Santana shouts.  “You obviously don’t trust your back to hold up on a patrol, or you wouldn’t be carrying a gun—which, by the way, when the hell did you get that, when the hell did you learn to shoot it ,and why the hell didn’t you teach me?”

“So, what is this, then?” Quinn glares at her as she steps out of her jeans.  “Are you mad because I didn’t tell Buffy about my back, or because I decided to take an extra precaution because of my back, or that I didn’t _tell_ you about it?”

“All of it!” Santana says.  “Jesus Christ, Quinn, you’re my best friend, you’re my partner in this ridiculous slayer shit.  I need you to trust me!”

“I tell you thinks when they’re important,” Quinn says.  “Now get out.  I’m not talking about this, and I’m sure as hell not having sex in the shower with you tonight.”  She shoves the door shut, forcing Santana back with a glare.

“You’re a bitch!” Santana yells through the door.  There’s no response, and Santana stalks to her room, slamming the door shut.

It’s not until hours later, when their neighbor’s alarm goes off to wake him up for his 4:00 shift, that Santana pads over to Quinn’s door.  It’s cracked, a gesture of goodwill, and Santana takes it, slipping into the room.  Thin rays of light filter through the curtains, illuminating the edges of the familiar landscape, but Santana picks across it blindly and sits down on Quinn’s bed.

“I know you’re awake,” she says after a few moments.

“No I’m not,” Quinn mutters into her pillow.

“Shut up and move over,” Santana says, flicking her in the arm until she rolls over and tugs the blankets back just enough to be an invitation. 

“I’m still pissed at you,” Santana says as she slides under the covers and stares at the back of Quinn’s head. Long measures of pale skin shine in the faint light, exposed by the tank top she sleeps in, and the uppermost peak of the longest surgical scar rises above the black cotton.  There’s a bruise spreading over her shoulder blade, the edges melding into the scar, and Santana’s fingers hover an inch away.

“Shut up, I’m asleep,” Quinn says.  Her shoulders tighten when Santana’s fingertips skirt around the edges of the bruise, down the line of the scar, following it blindly even as it disappears under her shirt, almost all the way down her spine.

“If you don’t tell them, I will,” Santana says after long seconds. 

“Don’t,” Quinn whispers.  She rolls back over, glaring at Santana through her exhaustion.  “They’ll bench me.”

“Even if they do, so what?  You _broke your back_.”

“I don’t care!”  Quinn shoves up into a sitting position, pushing a hand through her hair.  “I’m not going to let that stop me.”

“Stop you from what?”

“From being good enough!”

“What the _hell_ —Quinn, are you—”

“Shut up,” Quinn says weakly.  “Just—don’t.”

“Quinn,” Santana says again, sitting up and staring at her.  “You know they won’t—it doesn’t mean anything about _you_.”

“It means everything about me, and I’m so fucking tired of—not being good enough.”

“That’s stupid.”  Santana crosses her arms. 

“Thank you, you’re so helpful,” Quinn snaps.  “Get out of my bed, I want to sleep.”

“Oh, shut up,” Santana says, rolling her eyes.  “Lay your dumb self down and go to sleep.  You know I’m not going anywhere when you’re spouting bullshit like this.”

“Fine,” Quinn says.  She throws the blankets off her and stalks out of the bed, pillow in hand.  “Sleep here, I’ll sleep on the couch.  I really don’t care.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Santana says, grabbing her wrist and pulling her back towards the bed.  Quinn whirls with the momentum, one elbow cracking across Santana’s jaw and her other forearm pressing across Santana’s throat, pushing her down into the mattress.  Santana glares around the spots in her vision, eyes narrow, but she stays quiet.  She’s faster, but Quinn’s always been stronger, even before they were both called.

Seconds click past before Quinn steps back without a word.  She gathers her pillow and one of the blankets and disappears out of the room.  After counting to sixty, Santana follows, walking silently out into the living room.

The living room is empty, the curtains fluttering around the open window.  Rolling her eyes, Santana climbs out onto the fire escape and sits down next to Quinn, hugging her knees to her chest against the chill in the air.  Quinn doesn’t move except to wrap her blanket tighter around her shoulders.

“Want to share that?” 

“No.”

“Don’t be a dick,” Santana says, and tugs one side of the blanket free and around her narrow shoulders. 

“Don’t tell them,” Quinn says.  Her words are quiet, almost drowned out by the constant noise of the city. 

“They need to know.”

“They don’t,” Quinn says evenly. 

“They’re going to find out sometime.  You know they are.  Might as well tell them.”

“Right, because coming out and telling people things that matter is totally your forte, right?”

“Low blow, Q,” Santana says.  Her fingers tighten around the edge of the blanket, but Quinn doesn’t move. 

“You’ve had worse,” Quinn mutters.  “Go to sleep, Santana.  Don’t you have work or something in the morning?”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday, you moron.”  Santana puts a hand on Quinn’s knee, fingers warm against her cool skin.  “We’re in this dumb thing together and you know it.”

“We don’t have to be, you know.”  Quinn finally looks at her.  “You never wanted this, I know you didn’t.”

“I wanted to know what the hell happened to us.”

“But you didn’t want _this_.”  The dim streetlights write sharp lines of shadow across her face.  “You think I don’t know that you wanted to walk away?”

“And you didn’t?”

“No,” Quinn mutters.  Her head falls back against the brick behind her.  “I thought maybe I could—I don’t know.  Do something good for once.”

“Well,” Santana says.  “That’s ridiculous.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Oh, whatever.”  Santana’s fingers skim in circles against her skin absently.  “You have this stupid idea that you have some moral screw-ups to make up for because of shit you did in high school, but you don’t.  You don’t owe anyone anything.” 

“Yeah,” Quinn says hoarsely.  “I do.”  She pushes Santana’s hand off her knee and climbs to her feet, abandoning the blanket and slipping back through the window.  Santana heaves a breath, rolling her eyes skyward.

“Come to bed.”  Quinn reaches back through the window, holding a hand out for Santana to take. 

“You’re not going to choke me again, are you?” Santana smirks even as her fingers slide between Quinn’s on her way through the window.  “Because I’m pretty sure that’s your kink, not mine.”

“Stop talking,” Quinn says with a glare.  She pushes Santana through the door to her bedroom, kicking the door shut behind them.

“But you like it when I—”

“If you don’t stop talking, this won’t happen at all,” Quinn says, even as she pulls Santana’s t-shirt off.

“I mean, I do own a—”

“You don’t have any batteries for it.”  Quinn hooks a foot around her ankle and yanks, pushing at her shoulders and dropping her easily onto the bed.

“How the hell would you know that?” Santana’s legs wrap around Quinn’s, pulling her down.

“Because I took them and hid them,” Quinn mumbles against her mouth.  “So will you _please_ shut up?”

“Bitch,” Santana says affectionately against Quinn’s jaw.  Her hands find the scars on Quinn’s back once more, spreading over them and pressing heavily.  Hours later, as the sun starts to filter through the windows and they finally fall into their exhaustion, Santana slips into sleep with one hand still resting tiredly on the sweaty skin of Quinn’s back, right over the center of the longest scar.

 

 

* * *

 

Faith hits like an armored car, even through the thick pads Santana holds.  She grits her teeth and resettles her feet.  “Come on, I know smurfs in plaid who hit harder than that,” she says with a wolfish smile.

“Smurf—what?”  Faith pulls her punch back, blinking at Santana. “Is that some lesbian kink thing?”

“Shockingly enough, not everything you don’t get is a lesbian kink thing.”  Santana rolls her eyes and shakes her arms.

“Yeah, okay, angrypants,” Faith mutters.  “Come on, switch up.”

Santana strips the pads off her arms, throwing them at Faith and jumping in place, rolling her head left and right.  Faith grimaces as she straps the pads on, wiping the sweat away as best she can. 

“Gross,” she says.  “Okay, let’s go.  You stopped dropping your shoulder yet?”

“Of course,” Santana says smartly.  She feints in and out and in again, tossing lazy punches that glance off of the pads.

“Yeah, okay,” Faith says.  She rolls her eyes and lunges at Santana, shoulder driving into her stomach.  Santana stumbles back a step, and then another, before finding her footing and jerking her knee up towards Faith’s ribs.

They drift apart again, circling easily. 

“So,” Faith says conversationally as Santana throws a punch her way.  “Still dropping your shoulder.  You telegraph punches louder than the goddamned Titanic.”

Santana grits her teeth, forcing Faith back towards the wall with a flurry of punches.

“Anyways,” Faith grinds out against the blur of Santana’s fists.  “What’d you and Hot Barbie Slayer get up to last night?”

Santana falters, her punch deflecting weakly off of the pads, and Faith drops her onto the mat in less than a second, hovering over her with a fist pressed against her sternum.  “Stabbity stab, you’re dead.”

“Screw off,” Santana mutters, shoving Faith away.

“Nuh uh.”  Faith sits on her stomach easily, forcing the wind out of her and pinning her arms down with her knees.  “It’s talking time, sunshine.”

“Get off,” Santana says, wheezing around Faith’s weight.

“Maybe if you buy me a drink first.”  Faith winks, and Santana lets out a frustrated groan.  “Come on, you had to know this was going to come up.”

“I didn’t know you were going to _mount_ me.”  Santana glares up at her, trying and failing to throw her off.  “Isn’t your type normally more blonde?”  It’s a low blow and there’s no avoiding it, but Faith simply shrugs and puts more weight on her knees, forcing Santana’s arms into the mats until she grunts in pain.

“What’s the deal with your girl? Why the hell did she have a _gun_?”

“She’s not my girl,” Santana grinds out.  “We’re not together.”

“Really not the point here, grasshopper,” Faith says flippantly.  “I know you’re the only person who knows what’s going on in that crazy little head of hers, so start talking or you’re both benched.”

“Then bench us,” Santana snaps.  “Just get the hell off of me.”

“No,” Faith says.  She smiles widely.  “You can’t out-stubborn me, kid.  Just talk and we can go get a beer and that’ll be that.”

“I got nothing to say,” Santana says lowly.  “Now fuck off.”

Faith stares her down, brow furrowed, for long minutes as Santana’s hands go numb.  She finally moves, heaving out a sigh and hopping up to her feet.  Santana lets out a loud breath, curling her hands in and out of fists and searching for feeling in her fingers.  She lets Faith pull her to her feet, but jerks her tingling arm away as soon as she’s standing.

Without a word, Santana strolls out of Faith’s apartment, only just able to hold onto her keys.

 

* * *

 

Buffy appears at Quinn’s office an hour after lunch, materializing in the bustle of traffic that passes by Quinn’s desk and standing with her arms crossed until Quinn finally deigns to look up. 

“Do you need something?”

“We need to talk about yesterday,” Buffy says simply.

“I don’t see how that’s necessary.”

“Really is.  I already told your boss our sister is sick and you need to take care of her.  You have the rest of the afternoon off.”

“No, I don’t,” Quinn says, rolling her eyes.  “Because my boss hates me, so she would never give me the afternoon off.  She also knows that my sister is 31 and living in Michigan, so I wouldn’t be taking care of her unless she was suddenly dying.  So, don’t lie to me.”

“That almost always works,” Buffy mutters, rubbing a hand over her forehead.  “Seriously, Quinn, we need to talk.”

“And I need to work. Unlike you, I actually have a real job,” Quinn says with a sneer.  “And right now, I have a meeting to go to.”  She shuts her computer and gathers it and a stack of files, standing and walking past Buffy without a word.

 

* * *

 

Night comes early, the sun setting into the winter skyline, and it’s not until well after sunset that Quinn gets home.  She slips into the apartment tiredly, rubbing at her neck and heading straight for the hot water of the shower.  She doesn’t even notice the people in her living room until she’s halfway to the bathroom, and jerks to a stop, one hand snapping to her lower back instinctively.

“What, you gonna pop a cap in our asses?” Faith asks from her spot sprawled on the couch.

Quinn relaxes, rolls her eyes, continues towards the bathroom.

“Quinn, we have to talk,” Buffy says, sliding in front of her easily.

“It’s not my night to patrol,” Quinn mutters.  “Get out of my apartment.”

“You don’t get to give orders here,” Buffy throws back.

“Oh, and you do?”  Quinn barks out a laugh, glaring down at Buffy.  “Get over yourself.”

“Hey,” Faith says, low and dangerous, bristling as she stands.  Santana watches the scene unfold, silent, arms folded over her chest and face blank.  “Keep in line, kid.”

“What is this, good cop bad cop?” Quinn wheels around to face Faith.  “Surely you aren’t deluding yourself into thinking you have any more say in _anything_ than I do.  We all know who wears the pants in this.”

“Quinn,” Buffy snaps.  It’s not until she grabs for Quinn’s arm that Santana moves, sliding fluidly forward to put herself between Faith and Quinn as Quinn lashes out, a fist rocketing towards Buffy’s chin.  Buffy blocks it easily and has Quinn twisted around, spine curving unnaturally as her arm is jerked back and Buffy’s knee jams into her spine.  A sharp cry of pain whistles out from between Quinn’s teeth as her legs twist and collapse, and Santana abandons a suddenly motionless Faith to throw her own punch at Buffy.  Her uppercut collides with Buffy’s chin and the other woman reels back into the wall, eyes wide and staring at Quinn even as she falls into the wall behind her.

Santana catches Quinn halfway to the floor, lowering them gently the rest of the way.  Quinn’s teeth are practically creaking as she grinds them together, shoving ineffectually at Santana’s hands.

“Get off of me,” she mutters, but her eyes shine with pain and Santana doesn’t let go.

“Get out,” Santana says sharply, shooting a glare at Faith.

“What—”

“She broke her back,” Santana says, thin and quiet.  Her hands are tight on Quinn’s arms, fingers digging into familiar lines of muscle and scar tissue.  “Years ago.  Now get the hell out.”

“Quinn,” Buffy starts, eyes wide and hands open and out.  “I didn’t—”

“Get out!” Santana shouts.  Her voice cracks on the words, and it’s Faith who finally makes the move, grabbing Buffy by the hand and tugging her out of the apartment.  The door clicks shut behind them and Quinn finally slumps into Santana’s body, pained breaths wracking her body.

“I was fine,” she says into Santana’s shoulder, the lie pointless and obvious between them.

“Yeah, whatever,” Santana mutters.  Her lips press against Quinn’s hair and she holds her tighter.  “We’re not doing this crap anymore.”

“Santana—”

“No,” Santana says sharply.  “I’m leaving, and you’re going to come with me because we’re partners and we don’t do shit alone.  We’re just slayers to them, Q, because there are a thousand more like us.  I’m not playing that game anymore.”

“Santana,” Quinn says again.  Her breath is a hot rasp against Santana’s shoulder.  “I need to do this.”

“No, you don’t,” Santana mumbles.  One hand shifts, curling around the back of Quinn’s head.  “You don’t owe the world anything anymore, Q.  You’re good enough without being a pawn in their stupid war.”  Her fingers tangle in Quinn’s hair, and her lips twitch into a smile.  “Well, you owe me, but only because I _definitely_ got you off more last time.”

There’s a laugh, heavy and broken, pushing somewhere against Santana’s shoulder, and hands wrapping into the cotton of Santana’s shirt.

“We’ll have to move,” Quinn mumbles.  She shifts finally, curling half into Santana’s lap.  This isn’t her, this shrinking cuddling girl, but maybe no one really knows who she is anyways, so Santana just strokes a hand up and down her spine, mapping scars without trying. 

“We’re super hot and super awesome and super smart,” Santana says.  “We can work anywhere.”

“Boston,” Quinn says.  “The firm has an office there, I can transfer.”

“As long as no one expects me to start like the Red Sox, I’m down.”

Quinn chuckles and her lips brush against Santana’s neck.  “Promise.”

“Also you’re totally accepting the fact that this is a thing, okay.”  Her hand follows the scars on Quinn’s spine, down until her fingers dip into the waist of her pants and reroute around her hip as she says _this_.

“Maybe.”  Quinn’s lips are more sure against her throat, her hands writing lines across Santana’s ribcage, drawing around to her stomach and up under her shirt.   Santana’s stomach ripples with an inhale and Quinn smirks against her neck.

“Might be a dealbreaker.”  Her head drops back against the wall behind her, baring her throat to Quinn, and for two people whose recent years involved highly specified weapons training the gesture is as subtle as a volcanic eruption.

“Maybe,” Quinn mumbles again.  Her teeth work their way up to Santana’s jaw and she finally moves, shifting until she can maneuver Santana to the floor.

 

* * *

 

They’re leaving in two days, and Quinn hasn’t budged on her decision not to speak to Buffy, but Santana takes the long way to the coffee shop closest to their apartment, looping by Faith and Buffy’s place next door to the brownstone the other new slayers live in.  She’s just about lost her nerve, standing awkwardly at the base of the steps and about to turn and continue on her way, when the door opens and Buffy appears.

“Santana,” she says, slamming to a stop.  “Hi.”

“Hey,” Santana mutters.  “I was just—going.”

“Wait,” Buffy says hurriedly.  “You guys have been avoiding us for two weeks.”

“Your powers of observation are amazing,” Santana says, shoving her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat.  She shakes her hair out of her face.  It’s rare that she sees Buffy or Faith when her hair isn’t back in a Sylvester-regulation ponytail, and the small defiance warms deep in her chest, fueling her resolve.

“I tried to talk to her,” Buffy says, rubbing at her forehead.  “I came over, I called, Faith called.”

“Yeah, I know.  Roommate, remember?”

“We just—don’t know what’s going on.”

“All that mystical power, and your detective skills are still for shit,” Santana says cruelly.  “How the hell did you ever stop anything bad from happening with your heads so far up your asses?”

“Hey,” Buffy says.  Her eyes narrow, her mouth turning down, and Santana stands her ground in spite of the thrill of fear that runs through her.  “You need to take it down a notch.”

“You’re not my boss,” Santana says.  “I don’t care how many times you stopped the world from ending.  I won a goddamned national show choir championship with a boatload of morons on my team, and we got judged on ability _and_ style while doing it.”  She looks Buffy up and down, scoffing.  “You wouldn’t have made it past the sectionals.”

“We never pushed her past what we thought she could handle,” Buffy says lowly.

“Well, you were fucking wrong, weren’t you?” Santana throws back.  She sneers darkly when Buffy cringes.  “Fifteen minutes on Google and you could have figured it out, but you were so damn desperate to get more of us into your stupid little club that you didn’t bother.” 

The door opens behind Buffy, Faith stepping out into the cold air in nothing more than jeans and a t-shirt.  Her hand drops to Buffy’s shoulder, and Santana’s stomach turns heavily at the sight of it.

“I came to tell you that we’re leaving.  We’re not part of your stupid team anymore, and we’re moving out of town, and you’re not going to come after us.  This little bullshit experiment is over, and we’re done.  Consider this a courtesy notice.”

She manages to stop herself from throwing her middle finger into the air with a sneer and instead just turns on one heel and starts off down the sidewalk.

“Hey, hold up.”  Faith catches her quickly, darting in front of her.  Her hands rub at her arms, cold in the brisk air, and Santana stairs at her coolly.  “Whoa, calm down, okay, not gonna try and stop you.”

“What, then?”

“Just—take care, okay?  And hit me up if you’re ever back in town.  You got my number.”

“Yeah, okay,” Santana intones, eyes rolling towards the sky.  Looking at Faith—who had never been as hard on her as Buffy had been on Quinn, who was the brand of carefree that Santana had always wanted to be—was more difficult than it should be. 

“Stay cool, diabla,” Faith says with a smile, punching her in the shoulder.  Santana catches herself halfway to a smile, schooling her features back to ground zero.

“See you around,” she says quietly.

“Santana,” Buffy calls from the steps.  Santana stiffens not looking back.  “Take care of her, okay?”

Santana turns around, jaw tight and fists clenching in her pockets.  “She never needed anyone to take care of her,” she says coldly.   “She just needed people to stop using her.”

Buffy flinches visibly, and Santana offers little more than an icy smile as she turns back around and starts down the sidewalk, brushing past Faith without a word.  It’s four blocks back to the apartment they’re packing up, and she was only supposed to be gone for fifteen minutes.

“How did it possibly take you that long to get coffee?” Quinn asks, breathless and irritated, when Santana appears in their almost-empty apartment with coffees in both hands.

“They were out of your stupid blonde roast,” she lies smoothly.  She offers one of the coffees to Quinn, settling the other on top of a box and wrapping her freed hand around Quinn’s waist so she can kiss her.  “Should I be worried about your apparent preference for blondes?”

“No more than I should be worried about your apparent addiction to sugar and weird syrups,” Quinn rasps against her lips, flicking at the java chip frappuccino in Santana’s other hand.

“I’m pretty sure you should like anything that makes my tongue taste this good,” Santana says mildly.  “Are you done yet?”

“I would be, if you would actually _help_.”

“I’m just here to stare at your ass in those shorts,” Santana says, clearing a spot on the couch to sit on and propping her feet on some boxes.  “Please feel free to keep picking up things from the floor.

 

* * *

 

Their first week in the apartment they found in Boston, the one that Quinn’s ludicrously complex job—it involves  investments and annuities and a lot of math Santana doesn’t care to think about—pays for, they’re walking home after a truly terrible hour of stand-up comedy when they both stop in their tracks, looking to the left to where a vampire fifty feet away has a limp teenage girl in his hands, mouth stained red.

Instinct takes over, and Santana heads to a tree nearby to break off a stake while Quinn goes after the girl, hitting the vampire hard enough to stun him and pulling her away in time for Santana to fly in from behind and stake him.

They call an ambulance from the girl’s cell phone and wait until the paramedics arrive, melting away into the night as soon as the girl is safe.  Quinn is tense the whole walk home, brushing Santana’s hands away from her at every turn.

Once they’re inside, Quinn practically lifts Santana off her feet, pinning her against the wall and kissing her, messy and heavy and heated, as her hands tears at Santana’s belt.

They make it to the bed eventually, even their stamina wearing down, and Santana is all but asleep when she hears it.  She’s sprawled over Quinn’s side, arms curled easily around her and leg thrown over her hip, bite marks and hickeys dark against her tan skin.

“Maybe we don’t have to quit completely,” Quinn mumbles.

“What?”

“Just—maybe not patrol or seek it out.  But if it’s there…” She lets it hang between them, and Santana traces a line up Quinn’s rib, skirting up to press her palm against Quinn’s sternum, pushing against her heartbeat.

“If it’s there,” she says in tandem with Quinn’s heartbeat.

 

* * *

 

They’re never really understood _why_ , just that it happened, and it’s cool, and they’re going to take it as it comes.  Santana can outrun the former Olympic silver medalist track star who lives down the block, and Quinn can throw a guy twice her size across the bar when he won’t stop grabbing for Santana’s ass.

It just _is_ , and they don’t question it anymore, and if they happen to come across some vampire lurking along the edges of one of Boston’s countless Catholic cemeteries and chase it down for sport…well.  It just is.

  
And if Santana happens to be an avid Red Sox fan, well.  That just is, too.


End file.
